


Take my life. Give him my heart.

by BloodthirstyMerc



Series: C is for Common [26]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Confessions, Denial of Feelings, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Tags Are Hard, post episode 6, post that one mountain scene, wow a sfw (ish) fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodthirstyMerc/pseuds/BloodthirstyMerc
Summary: Year three of being clean of Geralt of Rivia, leading close into year four, and Julian was happy.{{Another Witcher request}}
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: C is for Common [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1060787
Comments: 4
Kudos: 151





	Take my life. Give him my heart.

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

\- - -

Jaskier had rationalised with the words. He had thought them over, time and time again, and tried to see it from Geralt’s perspective. And he had finally found peace with it. Well… partly.

Jaskier was torn, his heart shattered, pushing into his throat and making him feel like he might throw up. He barely managed to swallow it down that day. But he had, and he’d given Geralt what he wanted. Because in the long run, it was going to hurt them both less.

In the long run… he had to keep telling himself that.

Jaskier left, as Geralt had wanted him, and he never sought out the Witcher again. Even when his heart felt like it was trying to strangle him, threatening to stop beating if he didn’t. Jaskier did everything he could to keep himself out of Geralt’s life. Because what kind of person would he be if he didn’t, right?

The first night wasn’t even the worst. It hurt, and Jaskier had curled up in the room he spent his last coin on and cried. His chest ached, his throat burned. He couldn’t breathe as he sobbed, clutching to the furs around him as he tried to quiet his sobs for the sake of everyone else in the tavern that night. He cried until he passed out, and when he woke, he still felt like he couldn’t breathe properly.

He stayed in that tavern for almost a week, paying his way by singing songs that had nothing to do with the Witcher, because he couldn’t do that to himself. He didn’t have the energy, and he’s not sure how he even managed to get by with any pay at all.

But eventually, he had to leave, and so he did. Like he left Geralt because he _had_ to.

The next town pays a little better, up he only stays one night before he’s on his way again. His chest hollow, his heart empty, his stomach twisted in so many knots. He walks, he cries, he sings, he sleeps. Repeat.

It was almost a month after Geralt shoved him from his life when he was performing for a tavern, singing old songs from before Geralt came into his life. Someone stands up, intoxicated and loud, shouts for him to sing about the Witcher. And the whole tavern _agrees_. Jaskier’s throat had tightened, frozen up with fingers clenching around his lute so tight that he feared he’d break something.

The silence that fell after that nearly broke him. And it was with a heavy heart, with a strained voice that Jaskier forced himself into the songs they demanded. The patrons of the tavern sung with him, loud, cheerfully throwing the words back at him.

That was the first of the worst nights. When Jaskier returned to his room, he broke completely. He screamed, he cried, he broke things, threw shit around the room and tugged at his own hair. _It wasn’t fair_. He’d done nothing wrong, Geralt was cruel, a _monster_ to him. And these people demand he sings his praise because Jaskier had stupidly allowed the Witcher into his heart, knowing that he had claws and fangs that he was going to shred it with, if he didn’t drive his sword through it first.

Jaskier was kicked out of the tavern that night, and he didn’t even care. He walked throughout the entire night, unable to keep his breath in his lungs, choking and spluttering as he walked a road he didn’t know. His feet screamed for him to stop, his lungs ached, his heart felt like it bled. He didn’t stop screaming, didn’t care who or what in the night found him, a broken man, and finished the job Geralt didn’t.

He reached the next town by the low glow of sunrise, but he continued on. By then, his throat ached too much for him to keep screaming, but his eyes continued to burn, continued to let tears run down his cheeks. He walked the whole of that day, until he reached the next village, knowing that if he continued his legs would give out and he would have been pushing his luck.

He paid for a room and didn’t leave it. He slept all night, passed out from exhaustion, both emotional and physical. He slept until the innkeeper beat down his door and swore his demise if he didn’t get out of there. Jaskier limped his way to the next town that day.

It was almost three months, some of those filled with demands of townsfolk for him to sing about the White Wolf that Jaskier finally wrote some new material. At first, he wrote songs of heartbreak, at first he wrote everything about Geralt again. Over and over, ballad after ballad about Geralt of Rivia. About the pain he’d caused, about the love that was never shared. Apologies to him, hatred toward him, apologies for the hatred.

It went on and on, for months. Jaskier’s heart ached dragged on and on. People still demanded the old songs, but for the most part, the new ballads was always welcome. Jaskier twisted and knotted the meanings of his songs deep within them, keeping them vague to anyone but him, and maybe Geralt if they ever reached his ears. Part of Jaskier hoped they did, but most of him didn’t want them to ever.

It must have been almost a year after he last saw Geralt that Jaskier finally wrote something that had nothing to do with him. His muse was dying, and Jaskier had bled everything he had into Geralt. He knew he had to move on. The night he decided that chapter of his life was over, that he would stop writing for Geralt, that he would allow Geralt to leave his life, it was another one of his worst nights.

It wasn’t so much the full-body pain that screamed through his veins and forced its way from his throat. It was more of a numb, dead feeling. He sat in silence and _mourned_. He finally allowed himself to release the death grip he’d had on a man who didn’t care if he was dead or alive. He finally breathed in a breath that wasn’t poisoned by Geralt, that wasn’t a choked splutter from the grip of a Witcher’s hand on his throat. He finally let go.

Jaskier died that night. Jaskier was only who he was because he ripped his heart to shreds for a Witcher, for Geralt of Rivia. And Julian, he had to let go of that person. So, he allowed Jaskier to die in that tavern, just as he allowed Geralt to finally drip from his veins and leave his body.

He wasn’t going to get over it completely just like that, but it made rationalising easier. He thought about Geralt’s words in a different light, and finally, they didn’t stab him in the heart. No, he wasn’t to blame for Geralt’s problems, but he could understand why Geralt would force that pain onto him.

Because Geralt was selfish, a monster that he made himself. He wasn’t a monster because he was a Witcher, he was a monster because he wanted to be. Because he cared so little about himself that he cared even less for anyone in his life who wanted to be around him. And Julian rationalised easier with that.

Julian found peace where Jaskier couldn’t. And with his first performance; with Jaskier buried in an unmarked grave, with the remains of a Witcher’s poison in his heart, with songs that had nothing to do with white hair, golden eyes, sharp teeth, jiggered claws or scars, Julian found life for himself again.

\- - -

Julian never chose another name for himself. He was beyond that point now. It was easier to be free if he was himself. He’d buried Julian when he became Jaskier, but he’d never killed that part of himself. Jaskier had to be cut off, to spare himself. So, Julian chose not to continue with trying to be someone he wasn’t. The world got him, as he was. And his voice rang louder than it ever had across the continent.

People stopped talking about the Witcher he used to know, they stopped asking him to sing his praises or heartache. They allowed Julian to sing the songs of his heart, of his mind and body. He allowed himself to form how he was meant to, without hiding who he was or devoting himself wholeheartedly to another.

And the rationalisation became so easy that Julian stopped repeating Geralt’s words in his head at night. He could finally sleep, he could finally dream like he used to. He could breathe.

Over two years after Geralt left his life, Julian was finally free from him. And he had started telling himself that too; Geralt had willingly left Julian’s life. Because he wasn’t the problem, Geralt was. So, two years without the Witcher in his life, and Geralt was finally gone.

It felt different, but it felt good. Julian’s heart still yearned, but it wasn’t consuming, or weighing him down. He could love, and he could continue to live. So, he did, because clinging to a monster, drinking its poison was a slow suicide. Julian wouldn’t make the same mistakes that Jaskier had made.

\- - -

The bard still travelled, of course. He met a lot of new people, so many new faces and names who called him Julian, not _bard_. It was nice being able to feel so human again. He saw parts of the continent that he never thought he would, and honestly, it was better travelling it alone. He got to see and go where and what he wanted to. He wasn’t weighted, he wasn’t chained.

Year three of being clean of Geralt of Rivia, leading close into year four, and Julian was happy.

His step was lively as it usually was, his lute slung over his shoulder, knocking against his back with every fluid step he took. His fingers worked through the air at his sides, moving to form cords as he hummed to himself. He hadn’t quite figured out how to get his latest song down properly. He’s spent a few nights out trying to feel it out, but it kept feeling off, stiff. He wasn’t one to give up though, so Julian kept at it.

Even now, as he walked along a road in the setting sun of the evening. He’ll admit, he left the last town a little late, and he wasn’t sure how far he’d have to continue to get to the next. But after being on the road alone for so long, he wasn’t really worried.

He pauses his humming, licking his lips as he thinks. He didn’t like the way it sounded. He’s not sure what it is about the melody that was throwing him off, but he hopes that once he’s sat down in a tavern that will have a decent bath for him because he hasn’t had one in a few days, the harmony will come to him.

His thoughts cut off when he hears a whistle. His shoulders tense up a little and he thinks about ignoring it. He hears the click of tongues, the chuckles from them and the sound of a sword coming from a sheath. He could run, instead of turning, he should run. But Julian isn’t sure that he could outrun them, and it might end up worse for him.

He turns, holding his hands up as he continues his pace, walking backwards. There are four men lined along the road, they must have been crouched down in the trees because Julian hadn’t seen them. By the looks of their withered swords and axes, the fact that their clothing isn’t kept and the dirt on their bodies, Julian easily concludes that they’re bandits. He’s had a few close calls with some along his journey.

“I don’t have much,” Julian sighs, cautiously reaching for his hip. He watches as the bandits continue to stalk toward him. He shows that his hand is on his coin pouch, and he slowly lowers his other hand and starts on untying the knot.

“Stop walking,” One of the bandit's commands and Julian contemplates ignoring him, but he knows that ultimately, that is not the smart choice.

So, he stops his steps and pulls the coin purse from his hip. He holds it up and one of the bandits holds his hand out. Julian tosses it to him, trying not to sigh again. So much for that bath he was hoping for. He’d managed to save up a decent amount of coin lately too.

It always was risky travelling with a lot on your person.

The bandit grins, looking at the bag, moving his hand like he’s testing the weight of it. Julian swallows and holds his hands up again. “That’s all I have.”

“No, it’s not,” The bandit scoffs and Julian frowns, even though his gut twists uncomfortably. “you’ve got clothes on your back and a fancy little instrument tied to you. Those can’t have been cheap.”

Julian’s heart sinks. “Please, I gave you all the coin I have.”

“I don’t care.”

Julian closes his eyes. He could run, he knows he couldn’t. He’s seen the bows on their backs. He wouldn’t make it before one of them shot him in the back if they didn’t chase after him and catch him. “I’ll give you my clothes, let me keep my lute.”

It was his livelihood, he had nothing without it. The bandits look at each other for a moment, and Julian knows that they know they have no use with it, knows even that his clothes won’t fit them.

“Prove there’s nothing else in the case.” Another bandit speaks up. Sure, he can do that. Julian slings it off his shoulders and opens it up, pulling the instrument out. He rests it against his calf and pulls the leaflets of paper out and shakes them, proving there’s nothing between them before he tips the case open.

“Nothing,” He states, and the bandits seem to consider him for a moment before they nod. Julian’s quick to shove everything back in the case.

“Clothes off, boots too.”

Julian’s throat tightens. He always keeps enough coin in his boot for food, just in case of situations like this where he gets robbed. He’s never had bandits interested in his clothes before, emptying out his lute bag, yes. They always ask that, but Julian’s never had them check his shoes. He doesn’t want them to realise that he’s lying, but he knows that he’s already pleaded with them to keep his lute.

He works off his doublet first, throwing it to one of the bandits who holds his hand out for it. He slowly works off his undershirt too and hands that over. He pauses for a moment at his boots. He knows that he can’t ask to keep them. He pulls them off, stepping out of them and leaving them beside him as he works off his pants. “Surely I can keep my underwear.” He says in a low voice and the bandit nods his head. Julian folds up his pants and sets them atop his boots. Maybe he can leave before they find the money in his boot and he’ll be okay.

“Hand them over, c’mon.” The bandit hisses, mindlessly swinging his sword a little in the space between them. Gods, this wasn’t fair. Sighing, Julian picks up the pants and hands them over before he grabs the boots and does the same.

The bandit takes them, and because he can’t catch a break, shakes the boots and the unmistakable sound of a few coins knocking together comes from the right boot. The look on the bandit’s face is nothing short of amusement laced with smugness. He drops the other boot and tips the other out onto his palm.

“I gave you all the coin I have,” He mimics in an annoying voice that might have been his impression of Julian. “Let me guess, you forgot?”

“No,” Julian murmurs, even though he knows honesty isn’t going to help him at all right now. “It’s just enough for some food,”

“I told you to hand everything over.” He sneers, stepping closer to Julian, drawing his sword up. Julian’s shoulders tense up and he steps back, but the bandit grabs his arm and keeps him from going anywhere.

Julian swallows thickly as his sword presses to his throat. He doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. He couldn’t say anything that will make this situation for him better. “I think I’ll take what you have left then, since you want to lie to me,” The bandit hisses.

Julian’s flight instincts kick in instantly. He can’t lose anything else, he won’t have _anything_ if they take his lute. He’ll starve, he’ll die. Without thinking about it he drives his knee into the bandit’s gut. He recoils, cursing in pain and his grip slips from Julian’s arm. He doesn’t waste a second to hesitate and starts running.

The shouting and cursing behind him is loud and he has to tell himself not to think about the bows again, running into the thick of the trees in the hope it’ll ruin a clear shot for them. His heart thuds loud in his ears, and his breathing is hitching in his throat with fear. He can hear them running after him, and he wants to scream that he’s not worth it, he’s just a fucking _bard_.

He doesn’t get far, because he’s barefoot and the forest floor hurts on the soles of his already aching feet. Even fear can’t make him power through it enough when they already have the advantage. One of them grabs his arm and yanks him back, and Julian almost loses his footing. He has half the mind to attempt to swing his elbow out in the hopes to get him to let go.

But he doesn’t make contact, and all he sees is the arm swinging at him, the gleam of the knife in his hand and then pain in his throat. Julian chokes instantly, his whole body tensing up as pain explodes in his throat and clings to his neck. He’s thrown back as he splutters and gasps for breath, tasting his own blood on his tongue. He scrambles along the forest floor, trying to get away from the bandits as they circle around him.

One of them takes his lute bag and shreds it open. Julian makes a pathetic noise as he watches him take hold of it and swing it into a near tree. He can’t even sob properly as it shatters from the impact. The bandit who had first grabbed him steps up to him and leans over his body. Julian chokes more on his own blood as he turns his gaze away, thinking that this was the end.

“Too bad you won’t learn from this lesson,” He sneers before he stands up. “I hope you suffer.”

And then he’s walking away, the others going after him. And Julian chokes on another sob. They’ve left him to die, to bleed out or drown in his own blood, whichever happens first. Julian crawls along the ground more, his watery eyes scanning the area.

Moss, he needs moss. He knows that it won’t save him, but it might be enough to give him a fucking chance. So, he crawls, and he searches frantically, too scared to stand up and risk passing out from being light-headed. He hears their voices as they walk away, getting quieter, their laughter. It makes him feel like he could throw up.

He finds a fallen tree and pulls himself along the length of it. And he knows luck isn’t on his side, but the sight of moss in the wood has him making a broken, gargled noise of relief. He claws it from the wood and presses it against the gash in his throat. It burns, it fucking hurts so much that he screams, only the noise isn’t more than a weak bubbling noise in his throat. He doesn’t stop pressing more and more into his neck until there’s none left. He knows Geralt would use moss for wounds, and right now he wished, more than he wants to, that the Witcher was here.

He has to go through, he knows he won’t survive if he stays here and starts thinking about everything that went wrong between them. Holding his throat, Julian uses a tree to help get himself to his feet, slowly. He takes a few steps around the tree, and when he doesn’t instantly feel light-headed, he pushes off the tree and moves as fast as his feet will carry him. He needs help, he needs fucking _anyone_ , someone… fuck he’s going to die.

\- - -

Geralt’s ears were almost finetuned into the pattern of Roach’s hooves moving along the road. He’d been travelling for most of the day, and he knew the mare was starting to tire. They weren’t too far from the next town, and he hoped that he’d be welcomed enough for her to at least have a place to rest. And hopefully, someone will need a Witcher too.

He reaches forward and runs his fingers over the side of her neck and she gives a low noise, like she’s thanking him for the contact. Geralt pauses before he straightens up again though, his nose picking up the scent of blood nearby. He draws his shoulders back lifts his head, sniffing the air.

It’s not just blood, it’s human blood. And more startling, he realises it’s the smell of blood that he knows. Blood that’s been on his own hands, from his own words. Blood that is unmistakable to him, that he hasn’t smelt in years. Jaskier’s blood. His shoulders tense again and he stops Roach, trying to catch the scent. To the East, in the forest. Geralt pushes Roach on into a gallop, leading her off the road. They weave through the trees, and Geralt’s heart feels like it lodges in his throat the closet they get to the scent. He knows that he’s not mistaking, that it is Jaskier’s blood.

Geralt yanks harder than he means to on Roach’s reins, pulling her to a sudden stop. She neighs in protest, head flicking to the side, her front hooves lifting off the ground just slightly. Geralt is quick to pet her neck again, apologising under his breath to the mare as he jumps from her saddle. The first thing that he sees is the shattered lute.

He drops to a knee next to it, and he recognises it so well, even after all these years, the pieces of it familiar to the lute Jaskier had gotten from the elves. He turns his head, and there it is, a puddle of blood. Jaskier’s blood, the smell thick and heavy in the air. There’s a trail of it, and Geralt follows it without thought. It doesn’t go far before reaching a log, and Geralt sees the claw marks in what’s left of the moss on the log. He’s tried to stop the blood flow, and something like hope blooms in his chest.

Geralt taught him that, and he hopes that it’s helped Jaskier, hopes that it’s kept him alive so that he can find him. He straightens up and catches Jaskier’s scent. He headed South. Geralt starts following after the scent, pace quick as he looks around, tries to listen for a heartbeat, anything.

“Jaskier!” He calls out, holding his breath and slowing his pace as he listens for a response, hopes for one. He doesn’t get one though, and he grits his teeth firmly and moves on. He could keep calling for the bard, but he’s not sure that it will help. If Jaskier is in trouble, he might not be able to respond, or worse, if someone has him, Geralt could alert them to him.

So, he continues, following after Jaskier’s scent, but not finding any more drops of blood. Hopefully, that means that Jaskier’s been able to stem the bleeding, hopefully, enough to keep him alive. He’s not sure how long he tracks Jaskier before he finally hears the faint thump of a heartbeat. It’s shallow, but it isn’t slow. Fear, but it’s weak. It has to be Jaskier. Geralt picks up his pace, rushing through the trees to find it.

What he comes across, it feels like it rips his heart in two. Jaskier is almost completely naked, his body pale and dirty, weak, as he keeps himself on his shaky legs by leaning against trees. He’s pulling himself along the side of the road, and his other hand that isn’t keeping him up is against his throat. It strikes fear through Geralt’s body.

“Jaskier,” He says, voice so much weaker than he thought it would be as he jogs up to him. Jaskier turns, his eyes wide, shock and yet relief clear in his eyes. His face is twisted in pain and he croaks what Geralt thinks is meant to be his name.

Geralt grabs hold of his body, holding him steady as he looks him over. Blood is still trickling down his throat and along his skin from the wound in his neck that he’s pushing the moss into. Geralt’s chest tightens and he covers Jaskier’s hand with his own against the wound.

“Hang on, I’ll get you help,” Geralt says in a rushed voice. He turns his head back the way he came and whistles, loud and drawn out. He freezes up and listens, and in the distance, he hears Roach’s call back to him.

He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s middle and leads him onto the road, holding the bard against his side. He continues on the way that Jaskier was heading, checking him over. Besides the gash in his throat and the bruising on his feet, Geralt can’t see any other injury.

“You’re going to be okay,” Geralt assures and Jaskier’s fingers cling to his arm. Geralt continues walking with him until he hears the thud of Roach’s hooves approaching them. He stops and turns to her as she slows her pace and comes up to them, shaking her head a little.

Geralt lifts Jaskier onto her saddle and climbs up after him, holding Jaskier against his chest. He pushes Roach on into a gallop and he mentally promises her that he’ll treat her for working her so hard today. But she doesn’t even make a noise of any kind of annoyance like she usually does when he’s pushed her like she knows this is important.

Jaskier clings to Geralt and his own throat the whole ride, not making any noise or moving at all. Geralt has to keep checking on him to make sure that he hasn’t passed out from blood loss. “What did you get yourself into,” And he isn’t actually asking, his voice is a low mumble between them as he looks at Jaskier’s exhausted face.

Luckily, it doesn’t take them long to reach the town, but the idea of Jaskier trying to walk that distance in his current state is harrowing. As it is, the distance he did travel with the wound was further than Geralt would have thought he’d get. Determination and the fear of death would do that to a person though.

Geralt slows Roach as they come into the village and instantly starts looking around, scenting the air to try and find a herbalist, or someone else who might be able to help. He catches the eye of the blacksmith, their gazes meeting before he glances to the body against Geralt’s chest. He leads Roach on, only stopping when they’re beside him.

“We need a healer,” Geralt grunts, and he notices the glance the man gives to the swords on his back. He tries not to grit his teeth and demand cooperation. The blacksmith takes a second before he meets Geralt’s eyes again. He places the sword he was working on down and steps out to stand beside Roach. He points down the road to a little hut off to the side.

“That hut there, that’s where the herbalist lives, but I don’t know that he’s in at the moment.” He says and Geralt swallows.

“Thank you,” He says, pushing Roach on again. Jaskier makes a weak noise and Geralt’s hand comes to his back, rubbing up his spine slowly. “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”

Geralt stops Roach outside the fence to the herbalist’s hut and dismounts. He helps Jaskier down and holds him close against his side again. He feels the eyes of townsfolk on him, but he ignores them as he walks up to the door. He knocks firmly on it, his shoulders tense as he hopes to whatever Gods are out there to help them, to help Jaskier.

Thankfully, the door opens, but the bright smile on the man's face falters a little as his eyes meet Geralt’s. “He needs help,” Geralt says quickly, drawing attention to Jaskier. “His throat was lacerated.”

The herbalist steps forward and moves Jaskier’s hand out of the way from gripping his throat. He peels the moss away from the wound. Jaskier whimpers and Geralt’s thumb automatically starts rubbing into his arm to comfort him. The herbalist hisses and grimaces from the sight of the wound and glances up at Geralt.

“I’ll be able to save him, but I don’t know that I can promise the same for his voice.” He says and Jaskier makes a noise. Geralt’s gut twists from the noise of it, but also the implication. Jaskier’s voice was who he was. Geralt takes in a deep breath.

“Do what you can, just help him.” He says and the herbalist nods, gesturing for Jaskier to throw his arm around his shoulders.

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you wait outside?” The man requests. Geralt wants to protest, but he can’t risk the man turning down his offer. Jaskier won’t survive to the next town, and Geralt can’t do anything for him. His potions are deadly to humans.

“If you need anything, I might have something to give,” Geralt offers but the herbalist is already waving him off before he’s finished talking.

“I have what I need,” He mumbles as he leads Jaskier inside. Geralt swallows and stares at the door even once it’s closed behind them. His shoulders sag and he slowly backs up a little. He steps over to Roach again and takes her rein in his hand.

He leads her away, knowing that there’s nothing else he can do right now but wait.

He takes her to the stalls at the edge of town and leaves her to feed and drink, to rest. He makes his way through the town, looking around for merchants and asking for clothes in the hopes to find something for Jaskier, not caring that he knows he pays more than he should have to for an old shirt, pants and a pair of boots. But he doesn’t care, because Jaskier needs something. He has nothing… literately nothing. That knowledge hurts as much as a knife being driven into his chest.

Once he has the few things, he needed for Jaskier, he heads back to the herbalist’s hut. He can’t hear anything from outside, not without focusing fully to listen in. He doesn’t though as he steps inside the fence again. He doesn’t go up to the door again and drops to his knees just inside the fence. He sets the things beside him and closes his eyes as he rests his hands on his knees.

Geralt takes in a slow breath and allows the tension in his body to leave him as he tries not to think about the worst of the situation. Jaskier was going to be okay, and he tries not to think about the three years that have passed since he last saw him.

\- - -

Julian doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remembers clinging to Geralt, attempting to keep himself conscious as the Witcher had asked of him. And he remembers Geralt’s voice, almost sounding as though it was begging for someone to help him. He doesn’t remember who, he doesn’t remember another face that wasn’t Geralt’s being there to help him, but he knows that someone else had to be there. Geralt wasn’t able to help him more than he did, which wasn’t to say he hadn’t saved his life, because he had. But Julian knows that Geralt is not equipped to save humans or to heal them beyond minor wounds. What he has is for Witcher’s, and it would kill him. Which isn’t Geralt’s fault.

So, when he blinks his eyes open, Julian can’t remember where he is or what happened to him after Geralt took him into his arms and pushed Roach to get them to a town for help. He remembers jumbled words, but he doesn’t even remember any further pain than what he was already in. Maybe he passed out at some point, but at least he was alive, right?

His fingers twitch at his sides, and it takes a moment for him to be able to get the energy to lift his arm. It’s slow and frustrating, but his fingers finally come to rest against his throat. It’s wrapped in bandages, the material rough against his fingers but it doesn’t feel that way against his throat. There’s no pain, perhaps his skin has been numbed by whoever helped him. He turns his head slightly and finds the man. His back is to Julian, hunched over a table and Julian tries to clear his throat to say something. It results in his coughing.

The man turns around and instantly comes over to him. He grabs Julian’s hand and moves it away from his throat. “You’re okay, try to keep breathing, nice and slow.”

Julian swallows again and it helps, even though it makes his throat feel weird. He catches his breath and tries again. His voice comes out horse and croaked, barely a full word before he stops himself because he sounds so unlike himself. The man’s face shows sorrow, and he takes hold of Julian’s shoulders and helps him slowly sit up.

He turns away for a moment and grabs a cup of water. “Try this, it might help a little.”

Julian takes a tiny sip, and it burns a little in his throat, but he swallows it and wets his lips with his tongue. He tries again. “Where… ’m I?”

His voice sounds wrecked, and he can barely get the words out. Fear starts to claw at his throat, and he feels the burn of tears in his eyes. The man offers him a sad smile. “White Orchid, your Witcher friend brought you here. I’m the herbalist, I did what I could for your voice but… it won’t ever be the same again. I’m sorry.”

Julian’s eyes slide shut. He knew, the moment that bandit sliced his throat that his voice wouldn’t recover. He had held onto hope though because he wanted to believe that maybe they hadn’t taken everything from him. But they had, they’d really taken all that he was and the small things he had as his own. He had nothing left, not even his voice. He swallows back tears and lifts his head again, looking past the herbalist into the hut. He doesn’t see Geralt anywhere so he looks back to him and asks.

“Ger…alt, where…” He has to stop when he starts coughing. He just feels sorry for himself.

“Who?” The herbalist asks and Julian tries not to roll his eyes. Of course, he didn’t even bother with asking Geralt’s name. That leaves a weird unsettled feeling in his chest. Even after three years, nothing had changed.

“Witch…er.”

“He’s outside, I can get him for you?” The man offers and Julian nods. He mouths “thank you” but his voice doesn’t catch up to it. The man is already standing and walking to the door.

Julian turns on the bed he’d been laying in and places his feet on the floor. They’re filthy and swollen from him trying to make his way through the forest earlier. A quick glance down his body and most of him is disgusting. If it’s not dirt and mud, the muck of the forest, it’s blood covering his body. The cleanest part of him is probably the wound in his throat.

He lifts his gaze when he hears the door open again and watches as the herbalist gestures to him. Geralt steps inside and their eyes meet almost instantly. And he never realised that he missed that gold so much until he’s looking at him right now. His heart feels like it strangles itself at that moment. He didn’t think that he would be able to feel any kind of regret at never hunting Geralt down, in trying to remove Geralt completely from his life. But looking at him now as he steps up to him and drops to a crouch before him… Julian realises that he was never going to be without Geralt in his life.

Geralt looks up at him, and his eyes are clearly looking over the wrapping around his throat, checking it out, doing who knows what else as he stares at it. Julian stays still and silent for that moment, just allowing Geralt to look. The Witcher sighs and shuffles a little closer, his fingers twitching like he wants to touch, but he doesn’t reach out.

“Hey,” He murmurs, and Julian would laugh if he knew it wouldn’t feel like his throat was being ripped open again. If coughing felt that bad, he can only imagine what pain laughing would cause. Julian shakes his head slightly as a smile tugs at his lips. He tries to swallow and get his voice to cooperate with him.

“Hi,” He croaks, and he sees the pain on Geralt’s face at the sound of it. He tries to offer a smile like it’s okay. But it’s not. He knows that it isn’t and that Geralt did everything he could for him, and he’s grateful for that.

“What happened? Don’t… force yourself if you can’t get it out.” Geralt quickly adds on the end. He doesn’t want Julian to strain himself, which is nice, but he’s not going to give up and allow himself to feel all this self-pity.

“Ban…dits, took… all.” Julian manages, holding back from coughing as best he can. But the tingle in his throat makes it hard to hold it back. He notices the way that Geralt’s hands curl into fists and he glances away. His jaw is tight and Julian shuffles forward a little, but before he can reach out for him and try to say anything else, Geralt is getting to his feet.

“I’ll find them, and they’ll pay for what they did to you.” Geralt murmurs before he looks over to the herbalist who has been hovering in the room. “Can he stay here until I return? I’ll pay extra.”

The herbalist nods, but Julian is shaking his head. He tries to say Geralt’s name, but it gets caught in his throat. The burning tears in his eyes finally start to fall as frustration clings to him. He forces himself to his feet, and he’s a little unsteady from the earlier blood loss. He reaches out and grabs Geralt’s arm before he can try walking away.

“Geral-” He cuts off with a rough cough ripping through his throat, and he whimpers pathetically at the pain. Geralt’s hands grab onto his arms, holding him steady as Julian tries to calm himself enough to say what he has to. It takes a moment, but Geralt is patient. “Not… worth.”

“They took _everything_ from you, Jaskier. I’m not going to let them get away with it.” Geralt snarls. The protective tone in Gavin’s voice has Julian’s heart feeling like it stutters in his chest. Geralt wanted nothing to do with him, forced him out of his life and now he’s willing to hunt down people and kill them for him. He’s not sure what to think of that.

Part of him understands that the fear of someone dying might overpower any hate left in his bones, but he also understands that time can and does heal wounds. He doesn’t hold things against Geralt, he hasn’t for a long time now. He just thought that he would never have the Witcher in his life again. He wished he knew what the situation from Geralt’s side was, so that he could understand.

Julian can’t hold Geralt back when he turns away again and makes his way to the door. He grabs onto his own hand, playing with his fingers as he watches Geralt leave. He tries to take a steady breath and tell himself that it’s stupid to worry about him. He’s a Witcher, after all, if anyone can handle a group of bandits, it’s him.

Slowly, Julian moves back over to the bed and sits down on the edge again. What bothers him is knowing that Geralt killing them won’t get his voice back, it won’t heal the hurt. Julian lost a part of him, he doubts highly he’ll be able to sing again. And even dead, the bandits still would have won that battle.

\- - -

Julian falls asleep again, and he doesn’t remember it happening this time either. He’s exhausted, and these sudden, sparse naps aren’t helping him at all. They just leave him feeling more drained and somehow in even more pain then he’d been in when he passed out. This time he wakes up to the sound of the door opening, and he sits up too fast for his own good.

Geralt steps in, and it takes a moment for Julian’s heavy eyes to fully take in the sight before him. Geralt’s shoulders are noticeably tense, but in his grasp, he has Julian’s clothes, the clothes they stole from him. He steps up to the bed and sits himself at Julian’s feet, glancing over to the herbalist who’s sat across the room from them, watching.

“We should get out of here. I’ve gotten a room at the inn here and I’ve asked for them to organise a bath for you.” Geralt says, his voice oddly calm and soothing. Julian feels at peace hearing it; safe. He feels safe with Geralt like he never thought he would again. He gives a nod and goes to reach for his clothes, but Geralt keeps them in his hands. “Let’s get you clean before you put these back on.”

Julian is hesitant, he’s not sure about going around almost naked but Geralt’s soft smile, a smile he’s never had directed at him before, makes him feel like it will all be okay. He nods and slowly gets himself out of the bed, feeling a lot steadier now. His hand comes up to his throat, feeling the wrap around the wound there. Geralt’s arm comes around his waist, unexpectantly and Julian glances up at him as he’s lead toward the door. Geralt drops a coin purse on the herbalist’s table on the way past.

“Thank you, for looking after him.” Geralt says as he leads Julian outside. Roach is stood outside of the fence of the herbalist’s hut, and Geralt steps up to her and pulls his cloak from her saddle, placing Julian’s clothes in its place. “Here.”

It’s warm, be it from Geralt previously wearing it or Roach’s heat, Julian doesn’t mind. Geralt wraps it tightly around his shoulders and Julian pulls it even tighter around his body, covering himself up as much as possible. He tries to thank Geralt, but his voice only croaks.

“It’s okay,” Geralt says, offering Julian a slight smile before he takes Roach’s rein in hand and gestures for Julian to follow him.

With Julian unable to supply conversation, the walk to the tavern is silent. Geralt is silent as he leaves Roach at the stalls, collects up his things as well as Julian’s clothes and ushers him inside. Naturally, eyes are on them instantly, but Geralt’s hand on his arm keeps Julian from overthinking too much as he’s lead to the back and upstairs.

The bath is already waiting for them when they get in their room, and Julian doesn’t hesitate in dropping the cloak from his shoulders and stripping out of his underwear. The warmth of the water is a relief, and he sighs contently as he sinks into it. He hears Geralt moving around but pays him no mind. Until the water ripples at his side and draws his attention. He startles out of his blissful daze and looks up at Geralt as the Witcher dips his hands into the water.

“I have spare bandages. I can clean you up.” Geralt offers. Julian stares for a moment, trying to build up the energy to use what he has left of his voice.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are… you… helping me?” Julian asks and he sees the emotions in Geralt’s golden eyes. Pain, misery, guilt, regret, things Julian never thought he’d see in the Witcher’s gaze.

“Jaskier-”

“Jul-,” Julian cuts off with a cough, taking in a shaky breath to try and steady himself again. He tries again. “Julian.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment before giving a small nod. “Julian, I know… why… I’m sorry. I never should have treated you the way I did. I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I said the things I did. I’m… I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you because I should have been. I never should have forced you away.”

“Can’t change… it.”

“I know, so let me help you now, please?” Geralt asks, his voice weak and low. He sounds as hurt as Julian feels. Julian watches him, and he can see all of the emotion in Geralt’s eyes. He nods, lifting his hands out of the water to pull the bandage from his throat slowly. He tries not to look at all the blood on it as he hands it over to Geralt.

Geralt places it on the floor and starts working his hands in the water and then over Julian’s body. Slowly, but thoroughly. Clearly with every intent to properly clean him from head to toe. It’s when Geralt’s hands are pushing lower on his body, fingers against Julian’s hips that he looks up at Geralt’s face again. And it takes a lot of energy for him to find his voice again and try to ask Geralt what he needs to.

“What changed?” His voice is so raspy, and he knows that it will never be the same again. Even if he’s able to string together sentences again, he’ll never have his voice back properly.

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a moment, but the movements of his hands pause long enough for Julian to know that he’s thinking over how to respond. “I continued to hear about you, people talking about you and your songs. I knew you were still okay… and that’s what mattered. Catching the scent of your blood… I realised that I was scared, which is why I kept making sure I knew you were okay. I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I had lost you… but you were alive. Thinking I might lose you for good… I never hated you, Julian.”

“Then why’d you… push me away?” Julian already knows the answer. He knew it from the moment that Geralt did it and understand it once the pain in his chest hurt a little less. But he wants to hear Geralt admit to it.

Geralt sighs and his gaze lowers again. He continues scrubbing blood and grime from Julian’s body in silence for a moment. Julian wonders if it’s because he already knows that he knows the answer, if it’s because he himself doesn’t know or if he’s just trying to find the right wording. Either way, he doesn’t push and does nothing more than shift when Geralt needs him to so he can continue cleaning him.

“I didn’t want to admit how I really felt about you, Julian.” Geralt murmurs, his voice low and muffled. Julian stares up at him for a moment before a frown crosses his face. It’s not at all what he thought Geralt would say. He’s assumed that the reason was that Geralt didn’t like people getting close to him, because he thought that keeping distance would keep them safe, all that nonsense. But Geralt’s answer doesn’t really match up to that.

“Meaning?” Julian presses, tilting his own head as he tries to get Geralt to look at him. Geralt clicks his tongue and glances away for a moment, long enough to make Julian’s chest tighten before he looks back to Julian with what looks like determination in his eyes.

“I didn’t want to admit that maybe I was letting myself fall in love with you. Pushing you away meant those feelings would stop developing. I was wrong. And then… I thought I’d find you dead and the first thought that came to mind was that I would never be able to tell you the truth about that day.”

Julian has never seen Geralt like this. He’s not even sure that he’s ever heard Geralt talk like this. He’s never heard Geralt admit to his feelings, especially to anyone else. And he didn’t think, he never would have thought that Geralt would have any feelings like this for him. He knew Geralt cared, that much was obvious. But that’s where he thought those feelings stopped. Geralt… falling in love with him opened up so much.

Julian swallows thickly as he stares into Geralt’s eyes. The action draws Geralt’s gaze from his face and his hand comes up to Julian’s throat. His thumb brushes over the edge of the gash in Julian’s throat without actually touching the wound. The look in Geralt’s eyes softens, turning into something more sad.

“I thought that I would never be able to tell you that I still fell in love with you anyway. Even when you were no longer there.” Geralt swallows himself before he leans in. Julian’s eyes widen as his head tips back and Geralt’s lips press faintly over the wound. It doesn’t hurt, and Julian wonders if it’s just because Geralt is being that careful, or if it’s because he just can’t feel anything right now. He swallows again and Geralt kisses the gash again.

“Geralt,” Julian murmurs and Geralt slowly pulls back, his hand still holding onto Julian’s throat.

“I love you. And I wish I had told you sooner.” Geralt murmurs softly, looking into Julian’s eyes. Julian isn’t sure how to respond to that. If he had his voice, he would have so much to say. There’s a lot of hurt in his heart, a lot of anger too. He had come to terms with what Geralt had done, but now he’s in a situation where they can’t actually talk things out properly, and Geralt wants to talk. The irony.

Julian turns his head slightly and Geralt’s fingers pull away from his skin. He starts scrubbing at his own skin, picking up where Geralt left off. He can’t spew his heart out of Geralt again, even if physically was able to say what he needed, he knows that he shouldn’t put his heart out there again for Geralt to have and hold. Even with Geralt admitting his feelings. It took him almost dying for Geralt to even want to apologise.

Geralt’s hands draw back completely and he looks away too. They’re silent for a long time, save for the sound of Julian cleaning himself before Geralt stands. Julian watches him move away from the bath and toward the bed. He returns with fresh clothes and places them on the stool he’d been sat on. “I’ll wash your other clothes once you’re out. I hope these fit.”

He turns again and moves across the room. The tension is thick, obvious and Julian closes his eyes. He loves Geralt, he has for years now. Julian focuses on finishing cleaning himself, making sure that every bit of dirt, every smear of blood is gone from his body. When he stands, his glances over to Geralt again. The Witcher doesn’t move, his focus on whatever it is that he’s sorting through in his pack. Julian swallows and grabs the towel that had been left out for him and dries himself off.

He gets himself changed into the clothes Geralt had gotten for him and finds that they’re pretty decent material. They’re a little too big on him, but they feel nice and it makes Julian’s heart feel like it swells. With a sigh, Julian walks over to the bed, moving to the side that Geralt is sat beside. He sits down next to him, his hands coming to rest on his thighs as he looks the Witcher over. The White Wolf, once his muse, the person who inspired so much for Julian’s life. Now, he wasn’t sure where they stood.

Geralt looks up at him and the pain and anger quelled in Julian’s chest starts to seep away. Because he does know Geralt, he likes to think that he knows him well and that he understands why the Witcher does things like this. Julian holds out his hand for the Witcher, a smile slowly turning up the corner of his mouth. Geralt watches him for a moment before he turns to face Julian properly and takes hold of Julian’s hand.

Julian turns Geralt’s hand in his own, holding onto his fingers with Geralt’s knuckles facing upward. He leans in and kisses them softly, feeling some scar tissue under his lips. He wonders if it’s from Geralt punching something he shouldn’t have, a monster’s claws or man’s sword. Maybe one day he’ll ask. Right now, he just kisses Geralt’s knuckles softly for a moment before he pulls back and looks him in the eyes again.

He swallows and tries to prepare himself to be able to say as much as he can right now so that Geralt understands this from his side too. “I know our… parting hurt… you too. But I… went through so m… much. I lo… I love you, Geralt. I’ve had time to heal… I don’t… blame you.”

“You should, Julian,” Geralt tries to cut in, Julian can see all of the things he wants to say. Julian holds up his hands, effectively making Geralt stop. Julian takes in a shaky breath and sits himself up straighter, swallowing again in the hopes that it will help him say what he has to.

“I don’t. You love… me. Don’t want to… see me hurt. It’s okay. Just promise me, you… won’t ever… push me away… again. Please? I… I don’t think… I can… I can’t… lose you.” Julian closes his eyes. He’s been through so much healing in the past few years. He was okay with the idea of Geralt being out of his life forever. He was fine with never seeing him again. And he had definitely come to terms with the fact that Geralt didn’t love him. So, to be here now, like this. The only way he can allow Geralt back into his life is if they are together. Because he won’t be able to be close to Geralt, knowing they love each other and acting like it isn’t real.

“I can’t lose you either.” Geralt murmurs softly, shifting his weight as he moves himself closer to Julian. His hands come up to cup Julian’s face between them. His palms are so rough and warm, and Julian closes his eyes as he takes in the feeling with a calming breath. “I promise, I won’t ever hurt you like that again. And I’m… I’m so sorry I ever did. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most.”

Julian shakes his head, lifting his hands to covers Geralt’s own. “Don’t be.” He croaks.

Things between them won’t be healed instantly. It will take time, and a lot more talking then what Julian can manage right now, but they will be able to get through this. He knows that they will. Because Geralt wouldn’t have said everything that he has if he didn’t intend to be there, if he didn’t intend for things between them to get better. He would have helped Julian, maybe apologised for what he did and left it at that. He never would have professed his love if he intended for things to return to him acting as though he wasn’t in love with Julian.

Julian takes in a steadying breath and looks up at Geralt as he reaches up to take the Witcher’s hands in his own. He holds them in his lap, taking in the warmth and rough feel of them. Geralt’s eyes are on his throat, and Julian feels his heart sinking in his chest.

“I wish there was something I could do for you. To… so that you could heal fully.” Geralt sighs and Julian gives a non-committal shrug. He glances to the side, unable to stand the heavy gaze of Geralt’s eyes on him. There’s so much pain, so much guilt in Geralt’s gaze and Julian doesn’t want to see it. None of this is his fault. He learned a lot from his time with Geralt, knew that the moss would help, and maybe saved his life, maybe even saved the bit of his voice he can still use to speak.

But he won’t ever be able to sing again. There’s no way he could. Unless there’s the potential for a mage to heal him fully, but he doubts that it will be an easy thing to have happen. And he’s not sure that it would be worth it. He doesn’t want to think about it right now though. He wants to be able to just relax right now and not think about it. He knows that it will help with the healing that he still has to do.

“Done enough.” Julian murmurs softly, still not looking at Geralt. He takes in a steady breath and pulls his hands away from Geralt’s own. “I… should rest.”

Geralt draws his own hands back and nods. “Okay, I’ll be here, Julian. I promise that I’m not going to go anywhere. I’ll get some clean bandages for you.”

Julian smiles softly and nods. He knows that Geralt means it. He pulls his legs up onto the bed and crawls up to the head of it. Pulling the furs down, Julian crawls under them and lays on his back. He lets out a slow exhale and stares up at the ceiling. He hears Geralt moving around the room, but he doesn’t turn his head to look at him.

He feels the bed dip when Geralt sits on the edge of it, but he still keeps his gaze on the roof. He tips his head back a little more, and the Witcher reaches out for his throat. He rubs some kind of ointment over the stitched wound, and Julian grinds his teeth so that he doesn’t grimace in pain. Geralt’s fingers are gentle though, and eventually, the sting fades into a dumb burning.

Julian has to lift his head a little to help Geralt get the bandage wrapped tight around his neck, without impacting his breathing. Once Julian is settled back into the bed comfortably, he attempts to say thank you, but his voice doesn’t come out, and he can only mouth the words. Geralt’s lip twitches in a sad smile before he leans down to kiss over the bandage. Julian’s chest tightens and he tips his head a little to look properly at Geralt when he pulls back.

Julian reaches out and his fingers curl around the wolf’s head around Geralt’s neck. Geralt lifts his own hand and closes his fingers around Julian’s hand, holding it tightly in his own. Julian almost holds his breath as he watches Geralt lean down into him again. Julian’s eyes slide shut as their lips meet. The kiss is soft and brief.

“Rest well, Julian.” Geralt murmurs, kissing him again before he moves away. Julian’s hand falls against his own chest. His lip curls up into a soft smile. He knows that so long as Geralt is with him, he will be okay.


End file.
